The silky dance of tongues, the teasing nip of teeth, the edgy thrill of feeling a heart pound against her own. She let out a little gasp of pleasure when he changed the angle of the kiss.

And dived in again.

She set off aches in him that throbbed like pulse beats. Quiet sounds of need hummed in her throat and burned in his blood. Her skin was like hot satin, and the feel of it under his hands sent erotic images through his brain—desires, demands that belonged to the dark.

Dimly he heard another rocket burst, and the shouts of approval from the beach behind them.

He could have her inside her cottage in two minutes. Naked and under him in three.

“Nell.” Breathless, churning toward desperate, he broke the kiss.

And she smiled at him. Her eyes were dark, filled with trust and pleasure.

“Nell,” he said again, and lowered his forehead to hers. There were times when you took, he knew. And times when you waited. “I’ve got to make my rounds.”

“All right.”

He picked up her bag, handed it to her. “You’ll come back?”

“Yes. I’ll come back.” She was floating on air as she spun around and headed for her cottage.

Nine

“Power,” Mia told Nell, “carries with it responsibility, a respect for tradition. It must be tempered with compassion, hopefully intelligence, and an understanding of human flaws. It is never to be used carelessly, though there is room for humor. Above all, it must never be used to harm.”

“How did you know you were . . . How did you know what you were?”

“A witch.” Mia sat back on her heels. She was weeding her garden. She was wearing a shapeless dress of grass green with deep pockets in the skirt, thin floral gardening gloves, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. At the moment, she couldn’t have looked less like the witch she professed to be.

“You can say the word. It’s not illegal. We’re not the pointed-hat-wearing, broomstick-riding cacklers that much of fiction drew us to be. We’re people—housewives, plumbers, businesswomen. How we live is a personal choice.”

“Covens?”

“Another personal choice. I’ve never been much of a joiner myself. And most who form groups or study the Craft are just looking for a pastime, or an answer. There’s nothing wrong with that. Calling yourself a witch and holding rituals is one thing, being one is another.”

“How do you know the difference?”

“How do I answer you, Nell?” She leaned forward again, neatly snipping off deadheads. “There’s something inside you, burning. A song in your head, a whisper in your ear. You know these things as well as I do. You just didn’t recognize them.”

The deadhead went along with her weeds into a basket.